Paper Thin
by EclipseKlutz
Summary: Forced to consent to her marriage with Olaf, Violet attempts to put her life back together and revise her philosophy while evading a man she can’t stand. May evolve into Violaf.
1. Act I, Scene I

**Paper Thin  
Act I, Scene I  
****By EclipseKlutz**

**PG-13, T  
Drama/Angst/Possible Romance**_ (Olaf/Violet – have yet to decide)_

**Disclaimer: **_A Series of Unfortunate Events _does not belong to me, and never will… hence why I'm contented to write out the more disturbing bits of my mind under the title of "fanfiction".

**A/N: **This had been an idea of mine since I first read _The Bad Beginning_, but back then I never really conspired to write it. Recently, one of my friends showed me the video and inadvertently resurrected the idea, only with slightly more depth and plot and so on. So, yes, this has been done before – but it's doubtful it's been done like this. Set to the _movie_'s timeline as I'm far too lazy to find and then reread the book.

**A/N _(added the 17th)_: **The original notion had been to make this the prologue and then skip ahead four months, but overbearing plot bunnies attacked me into submission--this will now be done in two sections (a.k.a. "acts"). Act I shall consist of the few days following the wedding, Act II will hence skip forward... Yell at the bunnies if you disagree.

* * *

"…_Though I've tried to forget, you're all that I have  
__Take me home, I'm through fighting it…"  
_**Evanescence: **October

Violet Baudelaire watched on silently as the play commenced, taking in the pathetic acting and the makeshift props with a sort of detached comprehension. In less then ten minutes time, a hideous balding man would be dragging her down an isle covered with thin paper petals and she would be wed to a man who tended towards insanity. She was, to reuse old terms, very concerned.

Earlier, she'd been telling Klaus that there was always something, but now, as she sat reflecting on her odd and unfortunate predicament, she was realizing how wrong she might have been. For a change, Count Olaf had ceased to underestimate the siblings—apparently this time he was slightly more determined to succeed.

Sunny was dangling from the top of The Tower, shrieking unintelligible baby noises at the top of her tiny lungs, her life relying entirely on Violet's cooperation. Klaus was bound and gagged, guarded by whichever wretchedly imposing creature loyal to Olaf was off-stage at the time. And her? She sat in a wooden chair, attired in a complex but elegant white dress, holding a bouquet, wishing she could just die right there and not have to endure what was left of her life with this mentally unbalanced man.

Finally, one of Olaf's henchmen stepped backstage and pulled on a formal yellow jacket over his noticeably tattered sailor suit before turning to her. In a single swift, yet rough, movement, he had her on her feet and walking towards the stage exit. She closed her eyes tightly, allowing him to guide her to the back, behind the surprisingly large audience.

They stood there for several minutes until he finally poked her shoulder and said in a grizzly tone, "Open your eyes, girl. Here comes your debut."

She shook her head, far from willing to face this just yet. She heard him groan, and then felt his hand collide hard with the small of her back. She let out a stifled shriek, stumbling forwards under the pressure and at last opening her eyes only to see that the crowd's attention was strictly focused on the Count as he paraded about the stage declaring his undying love for this milk-maid whom he was about to marry.

Then the music started, and her desire for the ground to open up and swallow her only increased as every head turned to watch her and her captor's lackey ascend down the isle toward the stage. Thirty seconds later she was standing, trembling, beside Olaf, who seemed to be suppressing an emotionally confused smirk.

As Justice Strauss read from her law book, fully distracted from the pair before her, Olaf slipped his hand around Violet's and leaned just enough to whisper breathily in her ear, "Don't fret, darling. It'll be over soon."

She shuddered and instinctively stepped away, rubbing the back of her now free hand on the skirt of her dress as Justice Strauss asked if Olaf would take Violet as his lawfully wedded wife. He offered what appeared to be a rather realistic stage-smile, "I do."

Strauss nodded, turning to Violet and asking her the same question, only with the genders reversed. Violet swallowed hard, using all of her self-control to not turn and flee, "I… I do."

At which point, Justice Strauss took a flimsy beige paper from a befuddled stagehand and offered it to Olaf along with a pen. He grinned as he took it and signed it quickly before handing it to Violet. She accepted both hastily, trying to avoid contact with Olaf's cold skin, and lightly clasped the pen in her left hand as she knelt to sign the paper. Beside her, the older man sighed, "_Right _hand, please."

She glared at him, wishing him the most painful death fate could conjure, before finally complying. Her name seemed to form itself on the paper in slow motion, molecule by molecule, etch by etch. The pen was unsteady in her hand, an occurrence that had only happened once before, on a surprise quiz she'd blown off studying for in favor of creating another genius invention. But finally it was over and her name resided, lifeless and vacant, on the document before her – and then Olaf swept up the document, holding it above his head in a childish display of triumph.

Grinning broadly, his expression evil yet content, he finally turned to address the crowd, "Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to inform you that there is absolutely no reason to continue this show – it has, after all, served its purpose. You see, I am now husband to Violet Baudelaire and in control of her entire fortune and _you _are all witnesses!"

Silence fell upon the crowd before a lone voice cried out in disbelief, "You're kidding!"

"Am not," Olaf declared tauntingly as Mr. Poe stood and began to march angrily towards the stage.

"B-but, you can't… she can't," Mr. Poe stammered feebly.

On stage, Justice Strauss finally broke from her shock and burst into tears. "_Oh_," she wailed, "how could I?"

Violet frowned deeply, close to tears herself, yet approached the woman as though to comfort her. Meanwhile, Olaf continued grinning as he informed Poe, "Well, _you _let it happen. The Baudelaires _tried _to tell you – tried to tell everyone, actually. But no one listened. And now? Well, now I'm rich and the remaining brats will be sent off separately while I live the rest of my life happily with my countess."

At this point, he grabbed Violet and spun her into his arms, holding her against him as though to emphasize his point. Violet let out a disgusted groan and shoved him off, quickly returning to Strauss's side.

Mr. Poe gawked at him, apparently lost for applicable words. At this, Olaf's grin widened, something Violet had thought would not be possible, and he firmly grabbed her elbow before walking off-stage and bringing her with him.

Once back-stage, he motioned at his other minions and shoved her into a chair as he pulled out his walkie-talkie and gave the order for Sunny to be released. Just as he set the now useless object on the dressing table, one of his men appeared with a distraught looking Klaus at his heels.

Instantly, Klaus escaped from the man who currently was in charge of him and ran to Violet, sweeping his sister into what would have been a bone-crushing hug had his muscles not been too tired to inflict that sort of pressure. Instead he settled to simply hold his sister, crying into her shoulder as she did likewise into his. There was nothing either of them could say that would effectively express the sense of loss and defeat they felt – but tears seemed to portray what words could not.

Olaf watched on in vague antipathy, unsure of what otherwise to make of the spectacle before him. As Sunny's faint squeals could at last be heard in the distance, he stepped forwards and pulled the siblings a part, holding Klaus at arm's length and Violet by the waist and guiding them out to meet the hook-handed man and the car he should have brought with him.

Violet forlornly allowed it all to happen – sat herself obediently in the car between the despicable count and her brother, rested her head on Klaus's shoulder as she relished what she knew would most likely be among her last few moments with him, and tried to figure everything out.

When the Baudelaire parents were alive, she'd believed she had the world figured out for the most part. That no one could be completely evil nor good, and that there was _always_ something. Now, as she sat entirely unknowing of what could or would come next, she disagreed with herself completely.

Never would there always be something, especially when her something had been paper thin to begin with.

* * *

**A/N: **I will confess that I got desperate half-way through and scoured my little brother's room in desperate pursuit of the book. It's a miracle I found it, the way that place is organized…

Anyways, this may continue to have an entire storyline to it. But, if not prompted by the appropriate amount of reviews, I'll leave this as a one-shot (hint, hint). So, please review. Flames are often ignored, if not used to burn old yearbooks.


	2. Act I, Scene II

**Paper Thin  
****Act I, Scene II  
****EclipseKlutz**

**A/N: **… if it's a bit out of character, I apologize… but I had fun. :-)

* * *

Klaus had endured the return journey to Olaf's hideously uninviting domain in strained denial, keeping one arm firmly around his older sister's shoulders and his cheek on the top of her head as though to ensure that she was still there—that she hadn't been ripped away from him by the horrible man on her opposite side. 

Logic was his guiding star, and reason occasionally frequented the territory. But, at the moment, both were lost to him—foreign concepts he wasn't meant to understand, vague whispers of a past he knew would soon end. There was no sense to whatever it was that had just taken place, no logic, no reason, no anything… just stupid laws and stupid people and stupid greed. He had no stomach for it.

He had even less stomach for the way the man looked at his sister though. Until tonight, he'd been rather positive it was all in his head, a paranoid delusion formulated to offset the other ordeals, but now… now it was clear as the daylight he'd likely never see the same again.

The bookworm swallowed a disgruntled sigh as the rickety black vehicle pulled up alongside a house that appeared to have manifested out of a horror novel, and perhaps did, and glanced over at his youngest sister, who was currently biting the metal-clad hooks of the hook-handed man. Thankfully, the deformed man didn't seem to mind overmuch, and instead was actually _playing _with the infant. Klaus bit his lower lip, silently debating over whether or not the man would truly have dropped his sister had Violet done something to warrant the action. Speaking of Violet…

Klaus moved his head, tilting it to the side just enough to see Violet's face. She'd fallen asleep, which didn't surprise him as she'd been far too emotionally exhausted to have managed much longer anyway. The only issue resided in moving her without dragging her back into the conscious world where life would surely be Hell for her.

As the hook-handed man swept Sunny up in one arm and stepped out of the car, Klaus gently moved his sister's head off his shoulder and scooted sideways to decipher the best method to solve the situation. However, he wasn't the only one on the job, and a second later, Olaf had scooped her into his arms and was climbing out of the car. Klaus followed, not about to allow this.

"Put her down!" he demanded defiantly, placing himself in front of the man.

Olaf arched one side of his eyebrow and stepped around him before proceeding towards the door, "Do _not _order me around, orphan."

Too angry to return to his moresensible ways, Klaus again placed himself bodily in the man's path, "She's my sister. _I _can take care of her, so get your filthy hands off her."

Olaf's eyes began to shine and Klaus got the distinct impression that had the man's arms not been full, Klaus would have earned himself a rather large bruise on the side of his head. As it was, he couldn't be horribly harmed anywhere above the shins and so he continued, half-demanding, half-pleading, "I'll carry her."

For a moment, each stared at one another, glaring hatred into the other's skulls and mentally calculating the benefits of carrying on with whatever it was they were doing to irritate their opposition. Finally, the hook-handed man called out uncertainly from his post beside the door, Sunny still in his arms, and thus breaking their concentration: "Um, sir? Strauss will be home soon, you don't want her to see you, do you?"

Olaf's brow furrowed in a scowl as he turned from Klaus and shook his head, walking towards the house and stepping inside. Klaus wasted no time following, trailing him around the house until Olaf finally set Violet down—surprisingly gently—on the single lumpy bed in the orphan's cold attic room.

The seething glare Olaf sent his way as the man left the room was only overshadowed by the wicked grin on his face that clearly stated Klaus was going to regret his endeavors very, _very_ soon.

**-:-**

For several long, dreary hours, Klaus sat silently against the back wall of the room, playing guard dog for his sisters and not allowing sleep to take him as he was incredibly weary of what might occur if he did. Instead, he reminisced, recalling the more upbeat memories of his life before the fire, before Olaf invaded and all but destroyed their lives. And although it seemed to only supply an already dreadful circumstance with yet more depression, it kept him occupied—so much so that he hardly registered Violet's awakening and movement to his side until she placed a soft hand on his shoulder, hence dragging him from his reverie.

He offered her a weak, entirely unconvincing smile as she frowned and seated herself beside him. Quiet followed until finally she shook her head and declared solemnly what they had both been unwilling to admit, "I don't know how much longer Olaf is going to let us stay together."

"Me either," he offered after a moment, gently resting his head on her shoulder as though wordlessly begging her for reassurance. "I hope a while."

"Me too," she admitted, "But I doubt it."

He nodded slightly, enough that it was obvious he was agreeing but not enough to hurt her shoulder, "I kind of got him mad… I just… Violet, when he makes Sunny and me leave, _promise _me you'll stay away from him."

"I was intending on it," she replied. "What'd you do?"

"He did it."

"No surprise. What'd _he _do?"

"He… just _everything_, Violet. I couldn't take it anymore and I—I _hate _him! I hate everything about him—his schemes, his stupid eyebrow, the way he looks at... Violet, I wish we could just leave and never come back!" Klaus cried, pulling back to stare at her, his eyes brimming with tears.

"That part will certainly be arranged," a rather sinister voice announced from outside the room. The door swung open to reveal Olaf in its threshold, his tall figure framed eerily by the dim glow of the hallway light as he looked down upon them. "For you and that hell spawn at least."

Klaus glowered at him, "I meant all of us. You've got the money, why can't you just let us _all _go?"

Olaf knelt so he was at eye-level with the younger boy, "Where's the fun in that?"

And, with this said, he raised his arm and swung it as though to strike Klaus about the face—but Violet caught his wrist barely an inch from impact. She released him quickly, unconsciously rubbing the palm of her hand against the fabric of her skirt as she said in what seemed to be a morose monotone, "Don't hurt him."

"I'll do as I like," Olaf responded bitterly, but rising to his feet nonetheless. Halfway out the door he stopped and informed them in a rather sadistic tone, "You'd best enjoy your time together. It's running out."

Neither one of them dared to challenge his words, nor disbelieve them. But still, the concept was terrifying—neither of them knew what life was like without the other.

* * *

**A/N: **At some point there should be some form of action, but I don't advise you hold out for it. Oh, and a point I feel I'm obligated to bring up: my goal is to break away from the standard Violaf fic (i.e. she's basically helpless, he takes advantage of the situation...) and maybe establish some sort of weird feministic take on the matter... I most likely will fail miserably, but feel free to place some imput on my attempts meanwhile.

As always, **please review**. Reviews fuel the plot bunnies, which then pester me into updating quicker and more frequently. Flames are often disregarded, constructive critiscism is not.


	3. Act I, Scene III

**Paper Thin  
****Act I, Scene III  
****By EclipseKlutz**

**A/N: **I'm sorry about how long this took; recently I've been a bit sick and basically physically incapable of doing anything other then sleep, which is a truly pathetic excuse I know, but still…

Anyways, I'm amazed at how many reviews I've gotten. Thank you _so _much, and please keep it up. In turn, I'll try to update more frequently...

* * *

Violet awoke the next morning exhausted, and found she had to donate much more effort into convincing herself to open her eyes then usual. The room blinked into focus slowly, illuminated only by the few stray beams of light able to seep through the windows, anddecorated by dust and mold. Klaus was still sleeping, curled up and shivering on the hardwood floor between herself and Sunny, who was just barely waking up. 

Slowly, blearily, she pulled herself into a sitting position and hugged her knees to her chest, not quite prepared to face whatever lay in store for the day. Her gut was tied in knots, her mind edged with fear… it didn't sit well with her at all, and it was all she could do to keep herself from clawing her eyes out to ensure she wouldn't have to bear witness to anything too horrible.

"You look terrible," came Klaus's mumbled statement, almost incoherent with the remnants of sleep, as he rolled onto his black and blinked up at the ceiling. "I must too."

She offered him a faint smile, lightly stroking his hair, "Only a little bit."

It wasn't a downright lie, she decided. He _did _look rather worse for wear with the matted and wrinkled clothes, the pale skin, and the dark shadows surrounding his eyes but he still managed to radiate some bit of Klaus amidst it all.

He rolled his eyes, and then closed them before whispering, "You think if we stay quiet he'll forget we're here?"

"I wouldn't hold out for it," she responded solemnly, glancing forlornly at the door. Sunny offered a mild grumble in agreement.

"Do you think he has our disappearances in order?" Klaus continued after a moment, his voice kept at a strict monotone.

She bit her lip before leaning over to squeeze his hand, "I'll find you, or you'll find each other."

Klaus opted not to respond, seeing her statement for what it was instead of what it wasn't. "We'll come get you, promise."

Violet looked down at him, her eyes empty save a glimmer of sadness, and supplied him with a brief, cheerless smile, "I know."

**-:-**

Olaf made a point of setting Klaus and Sunny to work about the house, roughly shoving a longer-then-usual list into Klaus's arms and barking concise orders. For a while he followed them about, seemingly taking a twisted joy in making them redo every task they'd already completed to perfection, which left Violet to watch on helplessly—scolded bitterly every time she made the slightest move to help.

"Why not?" she demanded exasperatedly finally, her grip tightening noticeably around the broom in her hands. "I did this before, didn't I?"

Olaf tsked, shaking his head as he placed a long hand on her shoulder, "You, my dear, are my countess. You don't need to work… at least not until dinner."

She scoffed, "You expect me to make dinner for you but youwon't let me helpclean?"

"You're my countess."

"That's not the question."

"No," he responded, shrugging slightly, "but that's the answer."

Violet groaned, glaring at him before finally settling on turning away and sweeping the floor. Behind her, Sunny, who'd been watching the display in silence, grunted her disapproval of Olaf's antics loudly in baby-speech that most likely would have translated into the crudest of swear words had it been adult-speech.

However, Olaf seemed entirely oblivious of Sunny's presence. After a moment of watching Violet work, indignantly facing away from him, he crept forward like a cat after its prey, stationing himself behind her, unnervingly close, and wrapping an arm about her waist, holding her firmly against him.

"You're my countess," he whispered breathily in her ear, reaching with his other hand to the broom and slowly removing each of her hands from the handle. She stayed stock-still, shivering slightly but very tense against him—he rather enjoyed it. "You don't work."

With that, he released her, walking away with the broom in hand. Violet didn't move for several moments save to wipe her hands on the skirt of her dress until Sunny crawled over and bit affectionately at her shin as though to say that everything was alright. Somehow, Violet didn't quite believe that.

* * *

**A/N: **For the feminists out there, don't worry, Olaf will have his share of suffering before the book's end… Violet just needs incentive to grow a backbone. 

Hope this didn't suck too horribly, but either way **please review**. I'm hoping by now you've got my "Necessity of Reviews" speech memorized so I won't have to recite it…


	4. Act I, Scene IV

**Paper Thin  
****Act I, Scene IV  
****By EclipseKlutz**

**A/N: **Apologies for my temporary disappearance from the face of the Earth, and thanks to those who've still the interest to bear with me… In other news, I got _fan-art_! I've _never _gotten fan-art before, so thank you so much! You guys have basically made my life.

* * *

Olaf leaned against the battered outer wall of his house, watching the black automobile drive away in a manner almost befitting of a bird of prey. Arms folded loosely across his chest, smug grin plastered to his face; a vulture who'd eaten well for the night. 

In a state nothing like the satisfied one he was in, Violet stared wide-eyed after the automobile, legs stiff and numb and not allowing her to chase it—to beg the driver to turn around and bring them back. For a moment she attempted to blink back the tears but it was a futile effort at best, and she let them fall freely as she collapsed to the pavement beneath her feet.

The situation had a trace-like quality about it that would almost have allowed her to believe it false, had she not been too smart to trust in her own lies. Even Klaus knew better then to fall for her fake smiles and empty reassurances; but he was so determinedto set things straight again that he'd likely not feel the full weight of her absence until long after he'd been abandoned with some strange family in Ireland. But she had no such thoughts or hopes to keep herself occupied; she already felt the full weight of his and Sunny's absences.

"There, there," Olaf said huskily as he approached, not at all intending to sound comforting or sympathetic despite the words. She shivered, deciding that he sounded more like nails on a chalkboard then a human being.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and she quickly shrugged it off, shifting her position so that she was just out of his reach. Her actions merely drew a rough laugh from him and he simply moved closer, kneeling beside her before saying quietly, "I wouldn't worry so much about them as about you."

She tilted her head enough to offer him the darkest glare she'd ever given anyone, but it took a moment to find her voice through the suppressed sobs. "I hate you."

Olaf shrugged in response, "As is life, dear."

"I hate you," she said again, though the words were stronger this time—declared much more forcibly then before.

He offered no reply this time, yet continued to be completely unfazed and properly seated himself on the ground beside her—a look on his face that made it obvious he was mentally toasting his victory over the Baudelaires.

Violet bit her lip, forcing herself to stop the tears; in front of Olaf, she'd be risking far too much to appear so weak. Stumbling slightly through the tangled mass of dirtied skirts, she found her way to her feet and stood there for a second before turning finally to stare down at him. "I hate you."

She lingered barely a second more before she turned and made her way back to the house—back to the attic room where she knew she'd break down again. A small part of her felt relieved and she allowed herself to savor the feeling until intentionally left belongings of her siblings destroyed it once again.

Behind her, still sitting on the pavement, still staring after the car that had long since disappeared from view, Olaf's shoulders visibly slumped and he let out an exasperated sigh. It wasn't until long after she was gone that he finally replied, "You've established that."

**-:-**

Thirty miles away, Klaus was standing indignantly in a very prestigious-looking office, arguing heatedly with a very stubborn woman over what _she _was going to do with _his _future.

"You can't do that!" He shouted at her, face flushing red and hands clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles had bleached white. As she stepped towards him with a hand outstretched, likely trying to appear reassuring, he took a step back and cried once more, "You can't do that! She's my _sister_!"

The woman finally seemed to snap, stopping dead in her tracks and glaring holes into his skull. When she spoke again, her voice was dangerously calm, "I am going to say this one time more, and one time only: We have two suitable families, neither wants two kids. Your old guardian recommended you two be separated; this arrangement fits both families' interests, so your concerns are entirely invalid."

He felt his faith in other people shatter as he stared at her, hopeless and helpless, "I can't lose another sister."

**-:-**

Violet wasn't certain how long she could sit in the attic room undisturbed, or how much time she still had before Olaf decided to torment her once again. But for the moment, time didn't matter, nothing really did aside from the scribbled drawing left by Klaus and the chewed up piece of wood lovingly given to her by Sunny.

The emptiness she'd felt when the two of them had been all but thrown into the car had been overwhelming at the time, but it seemed to only grow larger with each passing minute. Silently she wished for it to eat away at her faster; maybe then she wouldn't feel anything by the end of the day and she wouldn't have to stay connected to this horrible reality… maybe she could just let go, and leave a barely obeying zombie in her place.

She bit down hard on her lip to prevent the tears and leaned her head back against the wall behind her. It was stupid of her, unbearably stupid of her, to so much as think such a thing. Even if they were no longer here tolerating every day with her, she still needed to be who they remembered—if she wanted to stay sane, she had to keep being Violet, not a shell.

A groan seeped through her throat and she clenched her eyes shut tightly, no longer sure what it was she was trying to block out. But by the second something was becoming imminently more clear to her—so much so that she wanted to strangle the very thought, or maybe shove it down Olaf's throat and pray that he suffocated on it:

There is _never _always something.

* * *

**A/N: **If it weren't for his actions, I'd enjoy writing Olaf… as it is, I like the dialogue. 

'Nyways, I thrive off reviews, so please, **please** leave some. It's not very hard—just press the blue button.


	5. Act II, Scene I

**Paper Thin  
****Act II, Scene I  
****By EclipseKlutz**

**A/N: **The longer I work on this, the more I think that the chosen title is an inappropriate one. Anyone else get this impression? It likely won't change, but still… Also, thanks to everyone for the wonderful reviews. I need a lot of poking and prodding to be inspired to write anymore it seems.

And the story has just leapt four months into the future.

* * *

Violet never slept at night. Instead she stayed locked in the broom cupboard he'd given her in a rare moment of sympathy, and she'd sit on the cold, dusty floor reading whichever book she'd been allowed to borrow from the library this week.

He refused to let her continue inventing and made a point of robbing her of all possible supplies; he claimed it was too expensive of a habit, when in truth he was saying that it would endanger his current hold on her. At that time, she'd been convinced that there was nothing remaining of her heart or soul to damage, and so had picked up reading—but every turned page, every word, every cover hurt her just a little more. She often wondered if he knew this when he suggested reading to pass the time.

At seven in the morning, every morning, he left and wouldn't return until seven that night, often smelling of alcohol and mumbling obscenities. She could tolerate it so long as she had those twelve hours in between. Then she could finally collapse on the manor's only bed and sleep—during those twelve hours she could evade reality, which was what she needed more then anything.

Sometimes she thought it wouldn't be so horrible had he not decided to move into a manor located within some foreign country. He told her that it was because he had no will to stay near Justice Strauss, who gave him evil looks every chance she got; Violet knew he was actually saying that he had grown sick of the disgusting house he lived in and the best way to modify it would be to abandon it completely.

That was them, though. He told her what he wanted to believe, just to hear it spoken aloud. Usually he meant something else, and she always saw through the façade. It mortified her because it gave them one more thing in common, though she never lied to him.

**-:-**

He was an hour early, mostly on account of being thrown out of his usual bar for enraging the manager when he inadvertently insulted the man's son. Normally he would have shrugged it off and drove around in search of another bar, but today he was too tired to bother, so he returned home at six o'clock dead tired and less drunk then he preferred to be so late at night.

The heavy oak front door closed behind him as he stepped into the foyer and kicked off his shoes. He ignored it and hung his black coat on a brass hanger before heading up the stairs, bent on collapsing and not waking up until he absolutely had to… which would be never.

Halfway up the stairs, he paused to consider this: stay home tomorrow? It'd be an opportunity to annoy his countess, which he hadn't managed to do nearly enough of lately. Still… she'd probably stay in that broom cupboard all day—which would be potentially problematic, for both his need to irritate people and her health. He doubted she often ate, and if she stayed locked up in that closet for twenty-four hours… well, he didn't want a dead countess.

A yawn escaped his throat and he gave up on this particular line of thought, favoring that of sleep. He was always tired anymore, never for a good reason, and much as it irked him he decided it'd be best just to abide it.

He entered his room to find his reluctant bride asleep on the bed, and a frown played across his lips. She was lying on her stomach, practically at the edge of the bed, and a gray-green blanket he didn't recognize sat in a heap on the ground beside her—likely kicked off. After a moment of contemplation, he picked it up and draped it over her.

Quietly, he moved to his dresser and pulled off his clothes before slipping into a baggy shirt and boxers—his standard pajamas—before collapsing on the opposite side of the queen bed.

**-:-**

Klaus was broken. He'd been so for a while, but it was only becoming worse.

His assigned family was kind and generous, but not warm. Around them he felt only on edge, only lost. They weren't family; family was what he had before, two sisters whom he could rely on when he needed them. Two sisters who, even in the darkest times, helped him find the light.

He laid on the floor of his new room, holding a wire contraption above his head—one he'd just created. It was easier then reading.

**-:-**

Violet forced herself to wake up, feeling that she must have slept too long. Usually he made a ruckus when he arrived—which would wake her up and allow her time to duck into her sanctuary. Had he just not come home?

She frowned, telling herself not to get her hopes up. She pulled herself into a sitting position and turned to glance out the window as she always did when she wasn't certain of the time… but what she saw first caused her to scramble out of the bed and onto the floor. She landed with an oddly loud 'thunk' and grimaced as he blinked.

"Morning, Sunshine," he mumbled as he rubbed his eyes, voice more groggy then cynical for once. She stared at him, at loss for what else to do. He didn't seem to notice, and instead rolled onto his other side, "I'm sleeping in."

It took a moment for her to collect herself, but once she did she climbed to her feet and all but dashed to her sanctuary. She fell to the floor once she reached it, and closed the door instantly, disgust and abhorrence overtaking her. Violet shook it off, or tried to anyway, and in a last feeble effort reached for the book sitting in a corner.

She wasn't certain which hurt more: her hatred for that foul being, or her longing to see her siblings again.

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, so a kind of short chapter… but I felt obligated to do _something _and needed to establish everything for this act.Okay, review—_please_. Requiring forty to continue, more would be appreciated and adored. 


	6. Act II, Scene II

**Paper Thin  
****Act II, Scene II  
****By EclipseKlutz**

**A/N: **Oh, wow… I _love _you guys. Thank you, seriously. Also, as always, I'm sorry for how long it took to update. Although I'm sick of making excuses, I actually have a valid one this time: finals.

Thank you for the reviews. But most of all, thank you for bearing with me.

* * *

The thick scent of slightly singed pancakes crept underneath the door of the broom cupboard, invading her sanctuary and causing her stomach to ripple with often ignored hunger. She clenched her eyes shut tighter, biting back a groan, wondering if he did this on purpose—if he did this as some psychological torture. 

Because separating her from everything she loved wasn't torture enough.

Unable to disregard the smell of actual food (something she hadn't gotten around to preparing for god knows how long), she rolled onto her stomach and buried her face into the small heap of blankets she referred to as a 'bed' whenever _he _was home. It wasn't enough—not to keep the aroma from riling her stomach, nor her mind. But it didn't matter. However exhausted her will-power was, however tired she was physically and emotionally—she wasn't going to cave in.

If she went downstairs, if she followed her nose and her stomach and her vital needs—she'd be forced to eat with him. He was making enough for both of them, she knew, as he always did when he actually bothered to cook. He did it to make her look at him, even though he knew she hated to do so. And she couldn't bear it right now. Especially not right now.

She could deal with starving so long as it kept her from him.

**-:-**

He hadn't been even remotely surprised when she didn't come downstairs to gather up a portion of breakfast for herself. And so, after he finished with his own meal, he piled the leftovers onto one of the few clean plates and carried it to the broom cupboard she'd taken over.

For a brief moment he considered knocking, but it didn't take long for it to occur to him that she'd only ignore him—maybe shout something obscene if he was lucky and she was feeling social. So, finally, he twisted the handle on the door and pulled it open.

She was curled up in the corner, looking up at the sudden flood of light. Her eyes fell on him and her entire expression transformed into one of disgust, hatred… He mentally shrugged it off, told himself that he didn't mind—after all, he should be used to it by now.

He ducked inside the cramped space and seated himself at the edge of the threshold, holding the plate out to her as though it was some sort of peace offering. Which, in fact, it was—she just didn't know it yet.

Violet eyed the plate skeptically, seeming to withdraw further into her corner if that was at all possible. He frowned in response, at last settling to place it down in the middle of the floor—almost out of his reach. She gave it yet another distrustful look, before brining her face up enough to view his.

Finally fed up, he groaned, shaking his head, "You're killing yourself."

Her utterly repulsed expression fell into something completely neutral, and the most she seemed to be able to manage was to blink at him. Confused. Obviously tired—there were large shadows beneath her eyes, obstructing her features and clashing horribly with her skin.

Understanding that she didn't quite seem to comprehend what he'd said, he continued, "You're killing yourself. You're a mess. When was the last time you ate? I can never seem to figure that out… and the last time you slept, at _night_? All night? And when the hell do you leave this damned place—if you stay in here too long you'll probably die of some poisoning… which looks bad on the press."

For several long moments, she stared at him—apparently unable to figure out why he cared, or why he noticed. At last, she said in a feeble, weak tone, "Two days ago… not since the fire… and… I don't know."

"'Not since the fire'," he repeated, arching an eyebrow. That had been… what? A year before, minimum? When she offered no response, and seemed to have no intention to ever do so, he groaned again—bringing his hands up to his forehead and messaging his temples. "Eat."

She cast the plate a wary look, the only expression she'd been willing to supply it with since he'd first entered.

"It's not poisoned," he informed her, tone too oddly truthful to be arguable. "And I'm not leaving until you finish, so eat."

Violet hesitated, glancing between him and the plate before finally reaching forward and pulling the meal towards her. Wordlessly, she picked up the fork from the top of the small pancake mountain and cut off a small section of the first pancake, slowly bringing it to her mouth and even more slowly still chewing it—as though she was sifting through the flavors, searching for something that didn't belong. At last, she swallowed, and again she hesitated before taking yet another piece.

He watched her, mildly interested yet even more annoyed. "A year ago you ate so fast I thought the world would end any second. Now I think I've seen snails move faster."

She paused to glare at him, swallowed the piece she was currently chewing and declared, "I trust you to poison it as much as I trust you to not poison it. Despite whatever it is _you _think, I don't plan to die anytime soon."

"Good," he replied, very quickly. "When you're done, sleep—on the bed. I'll stay down here if it's any comfort."

Once again, she paused, her expression rather contradictory. Finally, she demanded, "_Why _do you care? I'm an orphan, remember? Useless."

"You're also my countess," he retaliated, and she visibly shivered at the term. He made a mental note to use it more often.

She shook her head, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes—in her head, Klaus's words of warning were playing on a constant loop: "_Violet, when he makes Sunny and me leave, _promise_ me you'll stay away from him._" It occurred to her that she'd never actually made that promise, and she inwardly felt relieved—she would never have been able to keep it, especially with Olaf following her around as he did, and a broken promise to Klaus would ruin whatever remained of her.

"I'm not," she said after several prolonged minutes of silence. At his questioning glance, she continued, "Not sleeping… on the bed. If you care so much, get another."

"No."

She stared at him incredulously; something in her mind preventing her from understanding his answer—she figured it was the sane bit refusing to give way to insanity. "Why _not_? You have the money!"

He shook his head, "It's not a matter of money."

Violet bit down hard on her lower lip before saying in an unusually quiet, calm voice, "That's a first for you."

For a second, he just stared at her—but then he moved, quicker then she could follow. Suddenly he was kneeling in front of her, all but trapping her in a corner, his face unnervingly close to hers—his eyes narrowed, glinting dangerously, mouth twisted in a vicious snarl, "I try to be nice. I try to care. And _this _is what you do?"

Although every ounce of common sense in her told her to shirk back and apologize, Violet held her ground—too tired to give up, and she had nothing left to lose if she lost. "'Nice'. 'Care'. They're just words, and they _don't _become you unless they're constant. You? You're evil. You're a foul, disgusting monster and I have _no _reason to show you any appreciation—"

Her breath hitched in her throat at the expression that had crossed his face, and the words refused to continue. Still, she didn't let herself back down.

He leaned forwards even more, his face so close that his nose was pressed against her, that she could _feel _the warmth of his breath on her chin as he spoke; he placed a hand on either side of her head, partially to support himself and partially to completely trap her. When he spoke again, his voice was nothing more then a dangerous whisper, "'Evil'? You don't know what evil is."

**

* * *

A/N:** Oh, the glorified attempt at a cliff-hanger! I assure you, I remain a firm feminist by the way and that I believe completely in karma, which means that Olaf will eventually pay his dues… though, at this rate, I don't think he'll do so before I leave for camp (thirteen days left). 

And guys, if you could repeat the number of reviews you gave me last time I would love you forever (and maybe even write more for the fandom…). But mostly I'd love you forever, so please?


	7. Act II, Scene III

**Paper Thin  
****Act II, Scene III  
****By EclipseKlutz**

**A/N: **My computer literally _died_ the day after the last update, and remained dead through the three weeks I was at camp and then a week afterwards. My uncle graciously fixed it while he visited us, but the moment the computer started working again all the plot bunnies that had formulated during the delay without it ran off and left me with _nothing_. I'm sure there's irony in there somewhere.

And, before I begin, I'd like to thank you guys. For reviewing, for tolerating slow updates, generally for tolerating _me_. Thank you.

* * *

Violet hadn't intended to cause this, nor had she intended to say what she had—her words had come out long before her brain had a chance to filter them, and now she was to be paying the price.

She had pressed herself so far into the corner of the small, dark closet that her spine ached, but the pain barely registered. She couldn't spare the attention; she had to keep her eyes on him as he stared back at her. His dark eyes were flashing dangerously, as they always did just prior to a fit of anger, but she wouldn't break eye contact. She wouldn't _break_, not now—the time for that had long since passed.

He just sat there, body far too close to hers and face even closer, his expression stoic and the gleam in his eyes seeming to grow more and more conflicted with each passing second. It appeared as though he was waging a mental war against himself, or against his anger, and was, for the moment, at a standstill. She couldn't for the life of her conceive why.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his right hand twitch and instinctively she flinched, jerking her head to the side and thus breaking the eye contact she'd fought so hard to maintain. She hadn't meant to do _that _either.

A lump built itself in her throat as he blinked himself away from his inner battle. For a long moment, he remained exactly where he was, gazing at her with an unreadable expression, still bodily trapping her in the corner. Then he pushed himself off the wall, stumbling slightly backwards and then finally to his feet.

He opened his mouth to say something, likely something harsh and crude, but closed it again quickly—allowing it to form a thin line across his countenance. A second more he stood rooted to the ground, before finally shaking his head and turning from the room, leaving the door swinging behind him.

She stayed cowered in her corner long after the door had settled back into its frame, her thoughts a jumbled whirl and her limbs too stiff to properly move. He had just… walked away, even though any other time in any other situation half as trying as this one he would have lashed out viciously. He'd walked away.

She heard him downstairs, causing a ruckus in the kitchen and finally allowed herself to relax. For the most part, she doubted he would return with a butcher's knife in hand. Slowly, she leaned her head to the side, resting it against the wall that had prevented her exit before. Half of her mind was screaming at her, saying she was extraordinarily stupid and extraordinarily lucky. The other half was preoccupied trying to settle her breathing, which had become ragged not long after he'd entered the room.

Violet wasn't sure just how she'd survived this encounter without a mark, but she didn't think to dwell on it. Everything in her told her it would never happen again.

**-:-**

"_I hate you."_

Olaf bit down hard on his tongue as he rifled through the dust-clouded cupboards, hands groping desperately for some form of alcohol. Anything would do at this point; hell, he'd even bear with the weak junk if it meant he had the slightest chance of drowning out his currently merciless thoughts.

"_Why do you care? I'm an orphan, remember? Useless."_

A slightly metallic taste filled his mouth and he instantly released his tongue, the unbidden throbbing of the muscle enough to inform him that he'd bit down a little too hard. He clenched his teeth together instead, getting down to his knees to search beneath the sink. How was it he had absolutely nothing remotely alcoholic in the manor? That practically defied everything he stood for.

"_They're just words. They don't become you unless they're constant."_

Shakily, he climbed to his feet, trying his best to disregard the words ringing through his head. Trying even harder to ignore the voice saying them, the voice so lined with hatred and disgust that he actually felt _dirty _for being on the receiving end. How could she do this to him? Tear him a part in a few simple words; drive him to the brink of insanity yet at the same time preventing him from falling off. How had he let her do this to him?

When had he let her?

"_You? You're evil."_

She'd meant that. Her tone had been so blatant, so dark… she'd been entirely truthful when she'd said that. It'd struck a nerve, several, actually—he wasn't _evil_. Granted he wasn't exactly nice and fluffy either, but he certainly wasn't evil. Was he?

"_You're a foul, disgusting monster…"_

He slammed the cupboard door closed before pounding down on the granite counter with a shaking fist. His hand began to pulse, predictably more damage inflicted on it then the stone—but it was mostly dulled by the weight of everything else his mind had taken to throwing at him.

She had no reason to like him, he knew that. He'd done everything in his power to destroy her family and the life she'd been more then comfortable in. But he hadn't known _her_ then; he'd known only her parents, and the vast fortune held to their name.

Olaf shook his head, mostly in hopes of shaking off his train of thought. It wasn't nearly as effective as he'd have liked, but enough so that he had the common sense to pick his keys off the table. A bar, any bar, seemed more then inviting.

**-:-**

Klaus was more then fairly certain that he was going insane. Why else would he be standing at this otherwise empty bus stop, everything he cared to own stuffed in the backpack slung across his shoulders, the onslaught of rain drenching him thoroughly from head to toe? Why else would he have left the heated and dry foster home for _this_?

'_Family,' _he reminded himself ruefully, readjusting the straps of his pack so that they didn't dig into his skin quite so much. _'And whacked up pedophile drunks…'_

He did, of course, have absolutely no idea as to where he was going. Although he wouldn't put it past Olaf to remain in that desolated old house out of spite for the neighbors, Klaus knew better then to give the man so little credit. There was a brain behind all the plots and schemes, and he'd start feeling wretchedly dumb himself if said brain hadn't come up with the idea to relocate. Safety should win over spite.

Which didn't exactly benefit Klaus.

* * *

**A/N: **Yay, it's done! I sincerely hope you at least sort of enjoyed this, especially if you've waited all this time for the update. And, um, if it's not too repetitive—another ten reviews or so would be beyond appreciated.

In other news, this fic's officially at 3000 hits, which does wonders for my muse… reviews are better, though. By a lot.


	8. Act II, Scene IV

**Paper Thin  
****Act II, Scene IV  
****By EclipseKlutz**

**A/N: **I remember one day last year in which I'd gotten so frustrated with the sheer amount of homework that I ranted about it to anyone unfortunate enough to pass by. One such victim, an upperclassman, laughed at me before blatantly stating that in sophomore year the workload essentially multiplies. Well, I was a freshman, and therefore a prime target for daunting exaggerations, so I ignored them and carried on. I'm quickly learning now that, if anything, they were under-exaggerating.

The moral of the story: forgive long delays; my free time has been sacrificed in pursuit of a scholarship and a decent college. Also, the plot bunnies are very spiteful creatures—they linger and torment during classes, but the second I finally have a moment to write something they scurry off. Very annoying.

Also, thank you for all of the reviews. I adore you guys, so hoping you'll stick with me a little bit longer… I'm planning on wrapping this fic up relatively soon. (Of course, last time I said that the fic became the Fanfic That Never Ends.)

* * *

A typical caged bird sits perched upon a thin wooden beam, suspended above ground only to remind it of the days when it could soar higher, of days when it wasn't forced to look at the world from behind fancy steel bars. Fed, watered, but never free. Violet had considered herself one of them for a long while, but it was only that night that she realized her owner kept her cage unlocked. 

She had always been quick to complete any manner of work and, as she moved about her room in pursuit of clothes and various necessities, she realized that she'd been taking the talent for granted for far too long. But she didn't dwell on the topic, instead tuning out the merciless onslaught of frantic thoughts racing across her mind as she stuffed one last dress unceremoniously into a tattered beige suitcase.

She knelt to close it, yet froze just as she adjusted the clamp. Stiffly, she perked her ears, searching for signs of life elsewhere in the manor. At every creaking floorboard or screeching pipe she would hesitate, not daring to move until she was certain it was nothing more than the functions of an ancient house. Paranoia, she thought it was called. But in her case it was justifiable; if he were to enter in on her mid-runaway, she wasn't sure what he would do.

But she was certain she didn't want to find out.

Hearing nothing else, she let out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding and climbed to her feet, her firm grip on the suitcase's handle bleaching her knuckles white. She crept out of her closet quietly, mentally calculating the quickest way to disappear—with the least possible chance of being caught.

Nothing worked quite as well as she would generally prefer; the nearest bus stop was too close to wait at, and much too predictable, but the closest one after that was more than a mile away. The train station was closer, she decided, and would likely get her further… she'd need to take a little bit more money, though.

Making a desperate but feeble attempt to swallow the lump of anxiety nestled in her throat, she hastily made her way into the bedroom, fighting away memories of waking up beside the manifestation of sadism as she set her suitcase beside the bed and shoved the mattress back to grab the golden key hidden there. She climbed clumsily to her feet, ignoring the fact that night had long since settled outside and that she was wasting valuable time.

Clenching the key harder against her palm, she darted across the hallway and into the cluttered room that served as his entirely forgotten home office. She'd never really known why he insisted on having one, seeing as—to her knowledge—he didn't so much as _work_, but it'd never seemed wise to ask and she hadn't cared all that much. These thoughts were currently far from her mind, though, as she waded through the mess and stumbled over to the left wall, shoving aside a crude portrait to reveal a metal safe built into the room. She jammed the key into its rightful hole, twisting any possible direction until the door finally swung open, nearly hitting her face. She dodged it with nervous reflexes and snatched up the small case resting in the center of the safe.

For a moment she hesitated, trying to recall the code required to open the case. Unable to bite back the groan, she let it pass as she began fiddling uncertainly with the dial. He had told her once, on a night when he was particularly drunk and desperately in need of money so he could properly add to his incoherence, but she was fairly positive he'd changed it since then… but he never got around to moving the key, so maybe the case would be no different?

She prayed to every god she could think of that this would be true, and stared fixedly at the numbers. A pale finger reached to spin the dial towards the seven just as the sound of the front door slamming back into its frame echoed up the staircase.

Violet froze.

**-:-**

Olaf couldn't find it in him to appreciate his current state of sobriety. When he'd left the manor several hours prior, he'd done so with the full intention of finding an entirely new level of intoxication. Now he stood on the doorstep of his house wishing he hadn't angered so many bartenders over the past few years. Had he been a conspiracy theorist, he would have declared an organization out to get him; it had seemed as if every one of the disgruntled bartenders had been on duty tonight.

Sighing deeply, he pushed the front door open and stepped into the rather unwelcoming main hall of the manor. He kicked off his shoes as he pulled the door closed behind him and wandered into the kitchen.

Long hands groped through the cupboards in search of the bread he'd found residing there earlier, his stomach loudly grumbling at him to find it faster. At last he felt his thumb brush against a plastic wrapping, and grabbed at it quickly, watching it drop to the countertop of its own accord. He unbundled the bread nimbly, pointedly disregarding the mold staining the top of the loaf but making a mental note to go grocery shopping sometime in the near future nonetheless.

Satisfied with two slices of relatively fungus-less bread, he made to move to the fridge when a loud _thump _from the upper floor reached his ears. He paused, hand drifting midair, silently attempting to conclude what the noise might have been. Something (or someone) succumbing to the force of gravity? His countess attempting suicide? Or, most likely, his countess breaking everything he owned in a fit of rage?

Muttering under his breath about pointless distractions, he trudged up the stairs and pulled open the door to her cupboard just enough to see the interior. A large bundle of blankets in the corner told him she was asleep—which was probably for the better, if he were to think on it—and it occurred to him that sleeping was a very, very good thing and he was somewhat more tired than he was hungry…

His stomach growled in protest, and he figured eating first wouldn't hurt too much. Returning to the kitchen, he took a hard stick of butter from the fridge and spread it thickly across his bread with a knife he found lying conveniently beside the sink. His silverware was generally miss-matched, and the knife looked suspiciously like the same one he'd been meaning to clean for some weeks now, but he shrugged off the thoughts and crammed a piece of buttered bread into his mouth as he set the stick back in its rightful place in the fridge.

Chewing as he walked, he picked up the other slice of bread and moved once again up the stairs, wandering into his room—and halting in his tracks. His mattress was skewed and dangling slightly off the bed, the space where the key to his safe _ought _to have been, empty. His eyes darted from the mattress to the overstuffed suitcase lying on the floor beside it, and he didn't have to think very hard to determine who'd taken the key and why.

Dropping the bread, forgotten, on the floor, he sprinted from the room, down the gloomy hallway, into his office—the door to his safe was dangling wide open, as was the window beside it; the chair usually in front of the window lay on its side, likely the source of the noise earlier. But nothing bothered him so much as the lack of his box, the one containing the entirety of his fortune.

Breathing heavily, as though he'd just run a marathon rather than a few feet, he leaned over the windowsill, looking down to see the faint trail left behind by his hostage countess. Without so much as a pause to consider, he dashed down the stairs and out the back door, intent on finding her while her trail was still fresh.

**-:-**

When she was three, Violet's dire need to understand how things function prompted her to stick her tiny fingers into an electricity outlet. At the age of six, she invented a makeshift pair of wings and attempted to fly off the roof, resulting only in a broken arm and fractured ankle. At nine, her attempt to ice skate in early winter nearly landed her with hypothermia. And now, Violet decided disdainfully, she'd likely topped them all by sheer stupidity.

But she had never before felt so _free_. Free to be, to live, to breathe… the feeling, likely the adrenaline rush, was the most amazing feeling she'd ever felt. Again, she compared herself to a caged bird—but now, one that pecked its way cunningly out of its cage.

She stopped in a narrow alleyway to catch her breath, checking left and right to assure herself that she was alone. She'd been taking the rundown, hidden roads, dodging as often as possible in an attempt to shake whoever might be chasing after her. She knew he'd come as soon as he learned she was missing, and all she could do was hope it was later rather than sooner. But she had been too petrified to fix the bed, make things inconspicuous; she knew better than to hope.

She looked down at the case clutched tightly in her hands, and used her thumbs to twirl the dial: 7, 4, 9, 3, 0. A sigh of relief found its way past the lump still sitting stubbornly in her throat as the lid of the case lifted slightly. Balancing the box in the palm of her left hand, she used her right to pull out the large stack of crumpled bills, not bothering to count them as she crammed them in her pocket and dropped the box in the trash bin pushed against the wall beside her.

Again, she took off running, hoping against hope that she would find her way back to the family she left behind and mentally scolding herself for wanting something she would probably never get.

* * *

**A/N: **Augh. This was the worst chapter, by far, to write. Not entirely sure why, but it was… but it sets everything up to be a lot more interesting (or so I think, anyway). 

Reviewers, feel free to tell me what you want to happen over the various chase scenes. I have a few ideas, but lots of plot holes—suggestions usually help fill those in. Also, speaking of reviews, the goal is to get one hundred within the next few chapters, so donations are highly appreciated. It's really not that hard, and this fic gets enough hits to reach the goal with just this chapter, so please—make my life wonderful, give me my first fic to reach one hundred reviews, and I'll get around to posting more _Series of Unfortunate Events _fics.

(By the way, the one hundredth reviewer gets virtual brownies.)


	9. Act II, Scene V

**Paper Thin  
****Act II, Scene V  
****By EclipseKlutz**

**A/N: **So it's been decided that Writer's Block is the single most aggravating thingin existence, and the rest of its family is just as bad. Seriously—you know that complex you get where you can't write anything without hating it and starting over again and again and again? It's probably Writer's Block's cousin. And law(yers) must be somewhere in the family tree as well…

(Just kidding. Lawyers, please don't eat me.)

Oh, and the T rating was essentially instated for this chapter. You'll see why.

* * *

When she at last realized that she'd passed the train station she was too far away to turn back.

She stumbled to a halt; the tip of her shoe rammed into the upright edge of a clumsily laid cobblestone as she did so and she fell hard to the moist ground. Violet gingerly attempted to climb onto all fours, finding it infinitely more difficult then it ought to have been. The aches and exhaustion of running so long had finally pushed their way to the forefront of her mind, replacing all thoughts of escape with notions of rest; her skin was raw and prickling, effects she imagined resulted from running through cold rain and harsh winds without a coat or a thick dress; and her knees and palms were newly skinned, the right side—the side she relied on most—noticeably more damaged than the left.

A broken groan seeped out between her clenched teeth as she slowly rearranged herself into something reminiscent of a sitting position, but the noise was as hoarse and ragged as her breathing. As she wrapped her arms across her chest and vigorously rubbed her forearms in an effort to restore both feeling and heat, she glanced around her previously unnoticed surroundings and understood quite quickly that she was as lost as she'd ever been.

The dark sky was beginning to give way to lighter colors, but their shades and the location of the sun were entirely covered by the gray storm clouds lingering overhead. By the dim light, however, she managed to get a vague picture of her setting: obviously, uneven and unkempt cobblestone composed the narrow streets; buildings were made of brick and built in a fashion that allowed no space between them, as were all structures in every alley she'd run through this night; a few blocks ahead, four at most, stood a line of shops, obscured from view by the buildings around her, but they appeared to be the makings of a town.

"Thank God," she sighed, but she couldn't bring herself to stand. Instead she dragged herself backwards and propped herself up against the back wall of one of the buildings, mentally running over her current possessions and provisions—or lack thereof.

The soles of her shoes had been worn thin enough that she could feel the pavement beneath her feet, and so were useless for anything aside from the quick formation of blisters. As far as clothing was concerned, she had only the thin dress she'd worn when she ran from the house, and it was soaked through; she'd left her coat near her suitcase beside his bed. And food, she had none. Same for shelter, or connections, or a map, or any idea of what she was going to do now. All she had was lots and lots of money, and nothing more.

She shook her head, ignoring the pounding headache that came with the movement, and closed her eyes, ignoring the small portion of her mind that screamed at her for ever leaving to begin with.

**-:-**

Olaf had only made it so far as the third bus stop from the manor when the sun began to rise but was not quite prepared to give up. Not so soon, or so readily.

After receiving yet another testimony of never having seen his countess, Olaf found himself wandering wearily into the main hall of a second-rate hotel. He was too tired to return to the manor and too determined to consider it, but his body demanded rest and perhaps a good alcohol fix before it would allow him to press onwards.

The lady behind the faux-marble counter was young and blonde, but not pretty. Large, dark bags beneath her eyes declared insomnia, but the poorly covered bruise on her jaw hinted otherwise. He disregarded the signs though, never one to care for anyone not intimately connected to him (and even then it tended to be sketchy), especially not when he was drained and frustrated and humiliated.

He scowled as the lady offered him a blatantly fake smile, and he gruffly commanded a room in response to her monotonous greeting. She glowered at him but said nothing of it as she handed him a small, gold key and said in the same dull voice, "Room 203."

He entered the room and crossed to the bed without first inspecting and complaining about everything, as was traditionally his custom. He merely yanked off his tailcoat and kicked off his shoes and socks and fell onto the bed, ignoring the greasiness of the blankets beneath him. He burrowed his way under the covers and sheets, but couldn't quite force himself past the awkward stage between reality and sleep.

'_I will find you,' _raced across his mind in an endless cycle, as it had all night. It was becoming his mantra, and he didn't like it.

**-:-**

"Why, hello there."

Violet blinked, hardly registering the unfamiliar voice as she groggily pulled herself back into the waking world. She groaned as the process of waking up subsided to aches and coldness she was almost certain hadn't been so severe when she'd… fallen asleep? Another groan and she dropped her throbbing forehead into the scraped palms of her hands, finding the weight too heavy for her neck to support.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing out here all alone?"

Somewhere she'd forgotten about the reason she'd woken up, and the greasy voice caused her to jump. Her muscles tensed almost painfully as she hesitantly tilted her head upwards to see who'd acted as her living alarm clock.

The man leering down at her would likely have been considered short by the standards of most other men, but he was certainly taller than her by a substantial amount. His shoulders were broad, however, and his build muscular and, at the same time, malnourished. Matted dirt-brown hair had been tied back in a messy fashion, revealing a dark pair of eyes and a number of pale scars on his face and neck. His clothes were filthy, as was he, and the way he held himself lacked all posture and manners taught in a remotely proper upbringing. Overall, he looked rather scary—like the men that used to frequent Olaf's place, only this one wore less make-up and more mud.

She shuddered involuntarily and the man laughed—a harsh, biting laugh that made her cringe. Quickly deciding that the ground was not a good place for her to be, Violet scrambled to her feet only to find that this new position was somewhat worse. He had her pressed against a wall, and her escape routes could all be easily blocked.

"Well?" he said. His voice was mocking and cruel, and almost more unpleasant than his laugh.

She stared at him, trying to keep all traces of fear and disgust from her expression and tone as she replied, "Well, what?"

The left corner of his mouth pulled upwards, forming a doggish smirk. He placed a palm flat on the wall beside her head and leaned forwards, bringing his body closer to hers. Uncomfortable memories of the last time she'd been in a similar position flooded her head, and she bit her tongue in a vaguely successful effort to suppress them. He continued to smirk, obviously aware of her fear, "Well what're you doing here, _alone_?"

Violet opened her mouth to speak, but hastily closed it again. She was never ignorant to the news; she was all too aware of what awful, repulsive crimes befell girls who traveled the streets by themselves, but she'd never expected to have to worry about such an atrocity herself.

He laughed again upon seeing her dilemma, and again she recoiled—this time inching a little away from his arm, mentally calculating how fast she'd have to move to escape without being caught. By the way her eyes shifted to the side, he seemed to latch on to what she'd been thinking and placed his free hand on the wall beside her shoulder, effectively boxing her in.

"Well?" he said again. His voice was quieter but rougher and distinctly informed her that he was steadily moving forwards.

"Well, I—I have to go," she responded quickly, turning and moving to push past him.

He stood firmly in place, "Go where?"

"Home." And really, she was seriously considering returning to the manor if she got out of this with everything intact.

His smirk grew darker and suddenly she was against the wall again and he was much, much closer then she generally preferred. He shook his head at her, "You don't have a home, darling. That's why you were asleep out here."

She brought her hands up and pushed against his chest, hopelessly trying to make him budge. He didn't seem to so much as notice, "Relax, darling. This goes so much easier for both of us if you don't fight."

He moved his face—his lips—closer to hers, and she quickly brought her knee up, smashing it against his groin. As he doubled over, she quickly ducked away from him and began running—only to be tackled hardly ten seconds later. She fumbled desperately to regain her footing and only managed to get out half of a plea for help before he forced her to the ground.

* * *

**A/N: **Great. I feel icky now.

Reviews might make me feel better. Thirteen reviews for this chapter definitelywould. And thanks to everyone who's been reviewing lately; it's nice to have a bit of praise when you're murdering yourself with homework and lab reports.

Oh, and if you were wondering -- I haven't forgotten about Klaus and Sunny. This just isn't their story.


	10. Act II, Scene VI

**Paper Thin  
****Act II, Scene VI  
****By EclipseKlutz**

**A/N: **Wow, just… wow.

Do me yet another favor, please, and sit back, relax, and bear with my gushing (it shouldn't take too long): I've been on this site for nearly five years, have posted and, for the most part, removed fifty-plus fics, and not once have I passed ninety-seven reviews. So, honestly, I didn't expect _anything _of this story when I posted it, and the fact that it is now my most popular fic is… well, both bewildering and wonderful.

Now, delays between updates are all too frequent with me, I know—even when I'm fully intent on writing the next chapter, you won't see anything for months at a time. Two of my previous fics, _Fooling Me _and _Spiral_, both died after the tenth chapter was posted, the former due to complications and then finally too much elapsed time, and the latter because readers had given up on me. Also, neither of them were actually going anywhere. I don't want that to be the case here, so I'll thank you again for bearing with me and assure those who give up that I understand entirely.

I _am_ going somewhere with this note, it'll just take a while to get there. First, another tangent: yesterday I was sifting through assorted forums, both on and off fanfictiondotnet, and stumbled upon quite a few recommendations. That there is flattery like no other. You guys are amazing, seriously, and I send cyber-cakes out to those of you who have been convincing others to read this and cyber-cookies to those who still review.

Alright, to summarize what I'm fairly certain was a rather disjointed author's note: this fic _will _be completed, although the time it will take to do so is indefinite (but hopefully not too long); I'm sorry; and I essentially love each and every one of you.

Yes, I'll let you read the fic now.

* * *

"Please sit, dear; I can't imagine you want to stay on your feet right now."

The woman's manner was that of a mother hen; she was elderly, anxious and fretting, but her tone was warm and comforting. Yesterday, Violet might have appreciated this—a maternal figure determined to make her feel at home. Now, however, was an entirely different story.

Violet regarded the woman warily before shaking her head, biting back a grimace when a sharp pain shot up her neck at the movement. It ached, but was hardly the worst she'd felt in the past few hours.

"Tea, then?" The woman's voice had taken on a layer of something new, something akin to desperation. "You must be frozen."

Once again Violet shook her head, this time prepared for the accompanying pain. More than anything, she wanted to run out of the door behind her, away from this horribly cozy cottage, to Klaus or Sunny or even her cupboard in Olaf's manor. At this point, the idea of suffering Olaf's wrath was hardly a frightening one.

The line of the woman's lips twisted into a frown, and she opened her mouth to speak again when the man with the shotgun spoke, his voice quiet and gentle, almost fatherly, "Elizabeth, leave the girl be."

The woman, Elizabeth, paused a moment and then nodded, "Henry, make tea and fetch a blanket… and put the gun away. You know how I hate having that thing lying around my house."

In response, the man let out a small, defeated sigh and exited into the nearby hallway, not so much as glancing at Violet as he passed. She watched him leave and willed herself to relax; these were nice people, not the man in the alley. They were trying to help her.

"That scoundrel has gone after at least twenty girls in this area," Elizabeth said tentatively, "and that's quite a few if you consider that we're too small to be a town. We can't put him away 'cause we don't have a proper court, and if we rid ourselves of him the city's courts will get us. You're his only victim with enough luck to be found in time."

"I'm sorry, but I don't find that reassuring," Violet responded softly after a moment, knowing all too well that the words were cold no matter how they were said.

Elizabeth nodded, brushing off what anyone else would mistake for hostility with ease. She offered Violet a cheerless smile and motioned to a worn armchair beside the fireplace, "Please sit, dear, and I'll find you some dry clothes… though I doubt I've anything small enough."

She didn't allow Violet enough time to reply before she left the room, and Violet was left with no other option than to acquiesce. She slowly lowered herself into the chair and pulled her knees to her chest, fixing her eyes on the empty fireplace but not actually seeing it.

She supposed that she was lucky. Terrified, cold, aching, more or less alone, but lucky. The man in the alley could have done much, much worse and would have had her screaming and fighting not caught this couple's attention.

Henry reentered the room not long later, and offered her a ragged but warm-looking blanket and a cup of steaming tea. She accepted both wordlessly, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders and balancing the mug on her knees; she wasn't too keen on the idea of scorching her throat at the moment.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, seating himself across from her.

Violet responded with a blank stare, "Why?"

"Takin' so long," he elaborated quickly. "We'd heard the ruckus while you was still on the street, but didn't know what to make of it. We should've known, really. It's been about a month since his last appearance, he was due for a comeback."

"I don't understand why he's allowed to roam the streets if you're aware of what he's doing," Violet said after a long moment. "The lack of a proper courthouse shouldn't pose such a problem; I was raised in a city and they would bypass the courts altogether if they caught a man like him."

His frown deepened, making the lines of his face more pronounced. "If it were up to me, he would've been dead and gone after the first girl. But it ain't up to me, or any of the girls or their families. He picks 'em that way—nobodies and the poor, people who've no chance of fighting back with the law."

Violet didn't reply, her mind still racing to process the issue with the courts and fighting to suppress the images that randomly pushed to the forefront of her mind when she wasn't focused. She needed to stay focused. She needed to find Sunny and Klaus. She needed to go home.

"Why was he after you?" Henry inquired finally, his expression rather than words asking if this was flimsy ground he was treading on or not.

She supposed that the least she owed him was an answer or two, "I… I didn't choose the best place to sleep last night, and he found me. He assumed that I'm another nobody."

"Are you?"

"No one's qualified to define themselves, only others," she replied quietly, "I can't give you a viable answer."

He nodded slowly, "Forgive me for asking, but why're you here? I mean, no one comes here that don't have to."

"Mistake," she admitted at length. She moved her hand to her side, to the clump in her dress the man in the alley had somehow missed. "A chain of them."

**-:-**

Olaf hadn't managed more than two hours of sleep before a feeling of nagging concern forced him to awake. The sheets were greasy, he noticed finally, and the wallpaper was peeling if not missing entirely in certain sections. The carpet looked as if it had been dropped in mud at the factory and no one bothered to clean it since. And his feet ached for no valid reason, and his clothes smelled strongly of alcohol he'd never had the chance to consume. And generally he was just irritable.

He groaned as he slid from the bed, feeling infinitely more disgusting than he preferred to be—which was an accomplishment considering his lack of regard for personal hygiene was one of the few things his countess ever went out of her way to talk to him about. His countess…

He blearily made his way over to the adjoining bathroom, the exhaustion making his reason for being where he was more than a little vague. His countess had something to do with it, he knew as much, but she couldn't have kicked him out and she wouldn't have bothered to run away after such a long time—no, no, she had, and she'd taken his money with her.

Olaf scowled, finding that his aggravation had greatly increased with this realization. He stopped where he was, quickly prioritizing his tasks—track down his irritating bride and then shower, or vice versa? Tough decision, actually… but he was less likely to find useful witnesses if he reeked, which would be horribly counterproductive.

Shower it was, then.

**-:-**

"I'm sorry I took so long, dearie," Elizabeth exclaimed as she pushed through the front door. Her cheeks were slightly flushed from the cold, and in her arms was a bundle of clothes and a lumpy package. "I haven't been your age or your size in a few decades; had to stop by the shop's storage room and pick some things up. Now come with me before you catch pneumonia."

Violet hesitantly unfolded herself from the armchair and shuffled down the hallway behind Elizabeth. The older woman led her to a washroom and pushed the packages into her arms, "There's nightclothes in there somewhere. I'll go make you up a room."

She hardly gave Violet a chance to thank her before she bounded off again. Violet paused, sifting through the bundle with one hand as she slipped into the washroom. She closed the door behind her and glanced around, almost biting her tongue when she saw the mirror firmly plastered to the wall.

There was no point in conceiving a brilliant invention just to remove it, but she couldn't bear to face herself at the moment either. A moment passed before the obvious struck her, and she quickly unwrapped the bundle of clothes, draping the brown paper wrapping across the mirror.

**-:-**

Klaus was too tired to sleep, too worried to think. Thinking would only bring his thoughts back to the vile creature holding his sister captive, and sleeping meant dreams… or nightmares. He hardly knew; so much of both had infiltrated his mind lately that they were one and the same.

But in dreams he found his sister, unscathed and as bright as ever, overjoyed to see him at last, free to leave. In nightmares she was imprisoned, damaged in more ways than he would ever dare count, too dead inside to care that he'd found her. In dreams Olaf wasn't quite as vicious as Klaus originally thought, after nightmares Klaus would spend the rest of the night planning the man's painful demise.

Thinking would only remind him that the nightmares were more likely to be correct.

* * *

**A/N: **I apologize for the wait, the insanely long author's note at the beginning, the fact that there's another one here, and the blatant lameness of the chapter. This one was inevitably a filler, partially because I rewrote the alley scene three times and could never properly integrate into the story without doing this first. So yes, you'll learn what happened in the alley. Also coming up very soon are scenes designed specifically for the Violaf fanatics reading this.

Meanwhile, though, review?


End file.
